Deadman's Gun
by Your-Nuclear-Holocaust
Summary: "Guilt filled silence hung as the sun brought a dim light to slowly spread acrossed the field of stones, illuminating upturned faces and hands cupped in prayer." Character death post reboot low T


The grass was wet, leaving a cold damp dew that lined the bottom of designer slacks. The green blades crumpled with silent acceptance upon themselves beneath the weight of the man that slowly made his way through rows of matching stones. The sun was low on the horizon, lighting up the smog filled air with dirty shades of purple and red that swirled in ways that almost looked appealing. Songs had yet to be sung, the birds seeming to accept that the man needed his thoughts of guilt to dwell in silence. A heated mist left the man's slightly parted lips, dancing around his nose in a mocking show of grace.

Footsteps faded as the man slowed his pace to a halt before three simple pieces of granite. Guilt filled silence hung as the sun brought a dim light to slowly spread acrossed the field of stones, illuminating upturned faces and hands cupped in prayer. Name's of fallen souls stared back at him, the black letters craved so very deep stared back at him. Blaming him for the losses that they had suffered.

He hated this place, but the timing for a visit was fitting.

Cobalt eyes rested on the far left stone, on parcels left for the passed. Also fitting for the time.

A bottle of vodka from the eldest sat unopened in the center. A pang of anguish washed through a weathered chest at the sight. Another failure stared back at him, one he had expected long before it had occurred. A boy he had lost much like the one that slept beside his parents. A boy that had returned by some miracle. A boy that refused to forgive an old fool. A boy that, like the one beneath the earth, he would never hold again.

Beside that sat a worn book. A book that the man recognized as being from the middle child. He didn't need to pull back the torn and tattered leather cover to know what would stare back at him. Pictures of the deceased in question, all smiles and glistening blue eyes. Bright colours would burn out of place in such a dreary atmosphere giving one the sense of a forlorn hope. For this child to leave this object of treasure here…the man could only dread what that meant for the already damaged boy.

On the opposite side was a simple thing. An object that seemed meaningless. A piece of fabric. Torn from the breast of a red tunic. The yellow R encased in the black ring was enough to break the man's heart. He could still see cobalt eyes that very much matched his own staring at him when he had delivered the news. Eyes hardened with so much pain and sorrow that tried so hard to mask the horror that reflected from them like pristine crystals.

He had lost them all when the cable snapped. With the mangled cry that had followed. With the gun shots and echoes of snapping bones. With the blood that had stained paling concrete.

He had tried to tell himself it was better that way. That the young man wouldn't have to smile for them anymore. That he wouldn't have to mask the pain that was slowly growing in his eyes as the secrets of his youth had been thrown before him. The man had tried to tell himself that his boys were safer without him. Tried telling himself that they would all be happier without the shadow of midnight justice looming over them like a death cloud. But by telling himself all these thing, he had been lying. He had been attempting to bandage a wound that needed years of aid. A wound that needed hands to caress it and smiles to warm it. By doing this he had almost lost everything.

But the man would not flinch, he had sworn them that. He had sworn his fallen boy that. He would grow from this pain. If he could not grow stronger then he would grow harder. His heart may be worn, but they had given him a reason to fight.

Creased slacks bent at the knee as the man lowered himself in the damp greenery. A hand stretched out, calloused fingers traced craved letters almost _lovingly._ He could feel a familiar sting rumble behind his eyes. The palm of a large hand rested on the stone face before him followed surprisingly quickly by a wrinkled brow. An injured sigh left lips that were swiftly creased shut. Moments passed before the man took to his feet, finger tips brushing stone as if it were _him_.

"Happy birthday Dick." A voice escaped then, whether it had been intentional or not. A voice that was rough around the edges and filled with the promise of darker things. A voice that he knew his fallen boy had _loved_. "I'm sorry."


End file.
